Let us linger for a moment in that early morning hour when Poond and Billy had taken the fate of the South of England into their own hooves.
Left alone, Poond summoned a couple of pigeons on duty, gave them strict instructions about secrecy, and sent them off to find out what was happening in the small town with the spiders-pooed name. As soon as the birds had vanished into the sky, Poond, as if out for a stroll, made a circuit of the old barn that had served as a prison since the days of the Revolution. Inside were kept all sorts of riff-raff that needed to be disposed of — useless, and worse, harmful to the class struggle: a pair of mangy donkeys, a rooster by the curious name of Zen, seven hens who had crushed their own eggs out of spite for the Swine Council, a skinny milkless cow named Juliet, a lazy gelding, and a whole motley assortment of other small fry. Now and then, Poond would slip in Peter and Binom, two trusted young boars, to keep an eye on the mood inside and, if possible, gather intelligence — stray feckless pigeons would occasionally land on the windowsill with news from the other farms.
After a couple of circuits about the barn, Poond was sorely disheartened — all that could be heard from inside was a chorus of snores and contented chomping. To his mind, a prison was meant to breed remorse and repentance, not pleasant dreams through the night. This was intolerable!
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Poond could barely tolerate a thing. Even as a runty little piglet, he had claimed his mother's teat for himself, and any hapless brother or sister who dared come near it got a hoof in the eye. As he grew, Poond took a sour pleasure whenever Jones sent another pig to the butcher — especially if that pig had a bigger trough than his own. The notion of ending up as brawn never rattled him; he was in fine working order, and his stud services had kept the master well satisfied. Poond was carted round the neighbouring farms on countless occasions, and with every bucket of swill, he renewed his pass to a ripe old age. "Golden eggs? Chicken feed!" Jones would rub his hands, totting up what he'd earned to spend on drink. And that, too, Poond could not stomach.
Everything sent him up the wall! Jones, the brainless hens and geese who wouldn't give him the time of day, the donkeys and horses — bigger, taller, more important — and the cat, who gave a shit about him... And in a pig driven frantic by the whole world, revolutionary thoughts sometimes began to stir. It was the young goat Harold who had once repeated this to him, one evening not long after he'd got his hooves on the books in Jones's house. Poond opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Harold had even been about to add that the best revolutionaries come from those who are not poor at all and, for that reason, are smart losers — but something put him off, and the philosophical discussion never took place.
When word went round Animal Farm that Napoleon was on his last legs but would first establish the Swine Council, Poond's nights turned into a parade of horrors. In every dream, he burned Billy alive with relish, had Dracula drawn and quartered, and delivered Tart up to the donkeys of Pinchfield for their entertainment — (and we shall soon learn a good deal more about the last two!) — all so he could finally become what he wanted and settle old scores for everything he could not stomach. The old fool Moses had once, from a windowsill, observed Napoleon pacing about a room, muttering Squealer's name under his breath. Not long after, Poond met in secret with an apothecary from a town just south of Animal Farm — a fellow he had long supplied with rabbits for his pharmaceutical experiments. Now, the boar decided, the time had come to collect. The meeting was short and to the point, and within ten minutes the apothecary was off to prepare a vial of poison to order. Which (oh, Billy, good Billy!) never came to be used.
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Back at the house, Poond summoned Dracula — a battle-scarred boar whom Jones, as a runt, had swapped with a couple of half-drunk drifters for a holey sweater — either Romanian or Moldovan, the story went. Dracula was a member of the Swine Council (he had, of course, been among those kneeling at Napoleon's bedside) and handled all dealings with the outside world. Usually, his protruding tusk was the last word — and the most persuasive one.
To drive home the gravity of the occasion, Poond rose on his hind legs, lit a cigar, and began pacing the study. Dracula stood motionless, his small, prickly eyes tracking the Leader from one corner to the other. At last, Poond stepped up to the table, glanced at the map spread before him, and asked:12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUOkCQGxjpr
“What do you know of zoos?”
Dracula had seen the pigeons leaving early that morning and at once deduced which direction they had taken, but replied with a question of his own:12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvGmTj9VFZZ
"A zoological park is an institution for the keeping of captive animals for purposes of exhibition, conservation, reproduction, and study. A zoo is a scientific and educational institution, whose tasks include..."12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWpDSUXhnMs
"Enough," Poond cut him off. "Come here."12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnm3S8tSukA
Dracula approached. Poond tapped a hoof at the little elephant drawn on the map:12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQydZ21ssh1
"What do you know of this particular zoo?"
Strange as it might have seemed to Poond, Dracula did in fact know something: the small town had become indecently impoverished, and the townspeople had recently fled, unable to feed themselves. The houses stood empty, life had drained out of the place, and the only ones left were the starving inmates of the zoo — which, as it happened, was called “Frau Schwein’s Zoo.” For the time being, its animals survived by scavenging whatever the people had left behind. As for Frau Schwein herself — she was said to have either poisoned or hanged herself; the accounts were contradictory. There were whispers of some substantial wealth, but where it had gone, no one knew.
Poond listened to Dracula, slowly shaking that huge pig head of his, and when the other had finished, took to pacing the study again. His little eyes darted about, his tail twitching, and at last he decided to lay out his plan:12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV5BVfA7ePk
“We are going to move all the riff-raff from Animal Farm to the zoo,” Poond announced. “We shall call it Operation ‘Exodus,’ and we shall start with those in prison. Then we shall add all the other useless creatures still at large. I need a full list of the settlers, and a plan of action for them once they get there. I shall pass on the pigeons I dispatched to the zoo this morning as soon as they get back.”
“Sir,” Dracula said in a half-whisper, “first, we need to decide who shall lead the operation.”12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡylRrvnN2jx
Poond glanced around and lowered his voice to match:12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK9TY7JW8tJ
“Peter and Binom, of course — our trusted comrades.”12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKeDBbYazNt
Dracula averted his eyes, looking uncomfortable.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZQcS99yzQh
“Well?” the Leader grunted. “What else?”12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1hLtsaibpm
“I would not put them in charge of such an important mission.”12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡC5gbkMfGRn
“Your suggestion?” — Poond bored into Dracula with a piercing stare.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQN6OEamIAl
“I believe, sir, we could do no better than Tart.”
Tart was a sly, shameless sow, a born schemer — loathed not only by the whole of Animal Farm (the Swine Council, of which she was a member, naturally, excepted), but also by most of the neighbouring farms. As later events would prove, she was destined to play a special part in the events now beginning to unfold.
But between us, that was all secondary. The real reason Dracula had singled out Tart was that she had never slept with him — neither in the past, nor in the present, and that goes for the verb itself. Unlike every other sow on the farm. To say this got under Dracula's hide would be putting it mildly. And yet the farm mice had squeaked into his ears a hundred times how Peter, or Binom — sometimes both at once — would come tumbling out of her room, looking oddly flustered and out of breath.
And so, as Dracula figured, the time had come to give all three of them a good hard kick.
Poond considered this for a moment, gave an approving grunt, and repeated:12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpmkmqZdOGi
“I expect a detailed report from you.”
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Dracula burst into his study like a shot, slammed the door shut, tore a quill from poor Scarlett the goose, and set it screeching across a sheet of paper. An hour later, two pigeons tapped at the window with the latest from the zoo. Once he had spoken to them, his quill was tearing across the paper again — like a ping-pong ball in a hurricane — and by the appointed hour, the portrait that emerged was as follows.
The small town with the spiders-pooed name was indeed abandoned now, left in a state of desolation. Its only inhabitants were the zoo's inmates — a thoroughly demoralised rabble, run by a troop of monkeys under a chimpanzee named Jester. Among the larger beasts: a lame camel, a python, a pair of scrawny tigers, a half-witted bear, seven ostriches, a peacock, and a fair amount of smaller fry — a beaver, some hamsters, and other assorted idlers. There had once been a hippopotamus, but he'd been accidentally eaten the previous Christmas. The situation in the zoo was dire — hardly any food to be had, and the monkeys were running wild, barely controllable, scouring their territory from dawn to dusk.
“Thus, the arrival of a large number of animals from Animal Farm may provoke violence, which would harm the image of our farm.” At these words, Poond winced, but read on with curiosity. At the next paragraph, he let out an approving grunt:
“…in the current situation,” Dracula continued, adopting a lofty tone, “the wisest course would be to avoid conflict and focus on further demoralising the zoo’s inhabitants. To this end, the most cost-effective measure would be to keep them well-oiled.”
The plan was brilliantly simple! And there was no shortage of homebrew on the farm — over the years of their struggle for independence, the pigs had erected, if not a full-blown distillery, then at least a highly functional workshop, quite capable of getting all of Noah's Ark drunk, never mind a zoo.12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMxkhgCEfAr
"Hm..." Poond muttered under his snout. "Time to move."
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At sunset the following day, three carts, packed to the gills, rolled up to the gates of Frau Schwein's Zoo. On the foremost cart, a garish banner proclaimed: "To the brave beasts of the zoo — from the dwellers of Animal Farm!"
A mob of monkeys promptly spilled out to greet them, led by the notorious Jester. He eyed the approaching caravan with suspicion, chattering something unintelligible. "Come on, boys!" Tart called out from the driver's seat with a laugh. "Here's something you won't want to miss." Jester cautiously raised the edge of the tarpaulin on one of the carts — beneath it, row after row of jugs filled with a murky, dubious liquid stared back at him.
"Unload!" Tart barked, leaping to the ground and waving a hoof at Peter and Binom, who sat on the second and third carts, positively quivering to get started on the monkeys' drinking lessons.
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Two weeks later, Poond brought Peter and Binom back home — they had come down with delirium tremens from all the drink. In their place, he dispatched two no less devoted revolutionary fighters: a pair of young boars, Bonny and Benny. They too carried out the mission with distinction, reporting back to the Council that half the animals, however thick their accent, had learned to grunt, and that their leader Jester had developed a taste for acorns and would squeal with delight when scratched behind the ear. In short, after two months, the situation at the zoo had been utterly transformed: instead of aggressive gangs, the enclosures now housed a hungover rabble of stinking beasts with trembling heads, bloodshot eyes, and a reek of cheap hooch strong enough to drop flies dead in their tracks.
The first phase of Operation “Exodus,” Poond concluded, had been a success.
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and then Add to home screen.